All Over Again
by sams1ra
Summary: Dean's been quiet for days now. That's never a good sign. Dean is never quiet. A Wee!Chester story.
1. Lost

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own Supernatural. I do own some really good muffins, in case Kripke wants a trade…

Warning: John is nice in this one, so beware…

All Over Again

Dean's been quiet for days now. That's never a good sign. Dean is never quiet. Oh, he doesn't really _say_ much, but he's never quiet. I would have thought him incapable of being quiet or standing still, but I have seen him on a hunt, so I know for a fact that my eldest is capable of such unordinary things.

The thing is, lately, he doesn't _do_ much, either. That is to say, he goes to school and completes all his chores in uncharacteristic quietness, but other than that, he just sits there in his and Sammy's bedroom, more often than not by himself. He's not even watching TV or annoying his little brother, and that's not only unusual, but highly suspicious, too.

I think maybe it's that age thing, teenager stuff and whatnot, but Dean's never been that quiet for this long, and I'm starting to think he might be hiding something. I don't like it, I don't like him hiding things from me. I know I'm no father of the year, but I hate it when he hides things from me. I'm going to find out, I always do. Hunting is a skill every father of a teenager needs.

Dean is sixteen now, and usually, I can't get him to shut up. His favorite topics these days seem to be girls, cars, girls, my Impala, hunting, and girls. This could be a problem, because Dean is not a little boy anymore. I honestly can't remember the last time he had been just that, just a little boy. And I know he does more than just talk about girls. That was one awkward talk.

I think maybe there's a girl he likes and these are only hormones. Well, I hope that's all this is. But it's Saturday night, and Dean isn't going out. He just sits there in his room, reading a book. Yes, it's research, but still, not something my boy would normally volunteer to do. Well, not _this_ boy, anyway.

Just seeing him like that… I worry about him, I really do. What if he's sick? What if he's hurt and he's trying to cover it up again? I'll just have to consult with the best information database I know. Whoever thinks the internet is the best place to get information obviously never had a younger brother.

Now, Sammy is a tough one. He _can_ be quiet on occasion. Unfortunately, it usually takes me raising my voice to create that occasion. And Heaven help me, he started talking about girls, too. I wish Mary was here, she always handled those things better.

I ask Sam, very carefully so he won't digress from the subject, about how his brother is doing at school. I ask if Dean had been getting in fights lately, if there's a girl he seems interested in, and all sorts of things that might upset my eldest. But Sam doesn't know, either, and all I get for my efforts are three hours of Sam talking non-stop until I finally send him out to spar with Dean. I could really use an aspirin now…

I tried the talking thing, too. The direct, one on one approach. See, I'm not very good at these things. Never have been, not like my Mary used to be. But I don't understand this change in my son, and I don't like it. Dean being quiet like this, it can't be good. It's sort of like the calm before the storm rips your house apart, and I can't afford for my house to get ripped apart. Not again. So I do the best I can. I make sure Dean knows that, when he's ready, I'm here for him. That I _will_ listen. That he _can _come to me. He gave me a funny look when I said that, I wonder why.

I really hope I'll actually be there when the time comes, because there's this hunt I have to go on, and then another, and soon we're moving again.

Things get a little better though, Dean get a little better, but every now and then he gets in these moods, tosses Sam out of their room, slams the door and just sits there by himself, listening to his music. Where he got his taste in music is beyond me. And I am _not _too old, that stuff's _loud_!

It takes a few more months before Dean breaks and comes to me. It's January, nearly two weeks before his seventeenth birthday, when I notice I am being watched. Someone is watching me while I'm in my study doing some research for one of my friends. It takes me a heartbeat to switch into Hunter Mode, and I quickly grab my handgun and turn, my gun pointed at my teenage son. Dean gasps, startling for a second, and then just says 'never mind' and stalks away, back to his room. I cursed under my breath. That boy knows better than to sneak up on me when I'm working. But that's not really why I got angry. I got angry because I should have switch into Dad Mode, and not Hunter Mode, but it's too late now.

Only Dean gets moodier and moodier the closer it gets to his birthday, and I finally had enough. So, one night, after a suspiciously quiet dinner, I just toss Sam out to the living room, ordering him to either watch TV or clean up the place, and I go into the boys' room, closing the door behind me, sitting down on Sammy's bed.

"What's wrong, kiddo?" I ask for the millionth time, only this time, Dean is actually there when I ask it. He wouldn't look at me. You don't have to be a hunter to figure out there's something there when your teenage kid won't look at you.

"Nothing." He shrugs, getting up from his bed and walking over to his desk. I snort. That gets me a little glance. I don't snort very often. Or ever. But Dean quickly looks away. I sighed inwardly, trying to remind myself that now is not the time to yell at the boys for leaving their knives out in the open. _And is Sammy's knife getting a little dull?_ Oh, right, Dean. Now is the time to have a talk with Dean.

"Yeah, right." I say, watching as my oldest does his best to avoid me, and it _hurts_. It hurts that it's so damn difficult to get Dean to tell me what's wrong, because there _is_ something wrong, I can tell. "Come on, sport, you know you can talk to me, right?" I try again, but Dean still wouldn't look at me. I exhale loudly, getting up from Sammy's bed and over to my son, putting a hand on Dean's shoulder, squeezing it lightly.

I don't say anything, just wait for Dean to talk. That's all I can do, really. I've never been good at this kind of thing. And then I can feel Dean's shoulders sag, and he turns away from me again. "Dean?" I try again. A blind man could see there's something wrong by now, and the longer it takes for Dean to talk, the more worried I get.

"I don't remember." Dean finally says, though he says it in such a small voice that I almost don't catch that. I frown.

"What?" I ask him. Dean swallows, and then finally looks at me, and there is this look in his eyes, this little boy look that I can't remember seeing on Dean's face ever since… Well, ever since Dean was seven, I think. Dean's jaws are clenched, he's trying to look strong, but his lower lip trembled and his hazel eyes are gleaming with wetness.

"I don't remember her anymore." Dean admits in a whisper and lowers his eyes, and this time, I am the one who swallows hard. I have to sit back down, my legs just refuse to support my weight. "I've been trying, and I can't remember her anymore." Dean continues, looking, sounding so much like the small four year old that kept asking me when Mommy was coming back or what he had done wrong to make her go away. My heart is breaking. I take a deep breath, trying to control my emotions, but Dean – looking at me with those big hazel eyes – it's not helping.

"Sammy, he… He keeps asking me all those questions, and I don't know what to tell him, because I can't remember her anymore!" Dean admits, tears pooling in his eyes. He was doing everything he could to not let them fall down his cheeks, and every word that comes out of his mouth breaks my heart a little bit more. But I can't afford to break. Not now. Not in front of Dean. I'll break later, alone. Because right now, my son needs me. I push myself up from Sam's bed again and go over to Dean. And that's when he loses the fight, when the tears start falling down his cheeks.

"I don't remember what she used to cook or what it tasted like. I don't remember what her perfume smelt like. I don't remember the songs she used to sing to me, or any special games we used to play… I can barely remember what she looked like!" Dean cries, and I can barely hold my own tears at bay. I pull my boy into my arms, crushing him to my chest. "I don't remember her, dad. I'm losing mom all over again, and I can't make it stop!"

The End (?)

A/N: I do have another chapter in mind, but it's totally up to you. I'm okay with it being a oneshot.


	2. And found

**Disclaimer**: I still don't own Supernatural. I do own some really good muffins, in case Kripke wants a trade…

A/N: I finally got this done. I wasn't sure about this one, but I was in a warm a fuzzy mood… Thanks to everyone who reviewed chapter one, and I hope you all review this one, too.

Not beta'd, all mistakes are mine. Sorry 'bout that…

All Over Again - Chapter Two

I held my boy for a long time, the longest in quite a while, as he cried, slipping down to the floor. I helped him up to the bed, pulling him to me, and just held him there. I knew I should say something, anything, but... I guess I was still in shock. This was definitely not what I had expected. Dean never speaks of Mary. I guess I never speak of her, either, and it hurts. But seeing him like that, it hurts more.

I hold him to me, my chin resting on the top of his head as I do my best to stay in control of my emotions. I can't lose it. Not now, not in front of him. He needs me, and this time, I am going to be there for him. "It's all right, Dean. It's okay." I tell him. But it's not all right. It's not okay, and we both know it.

And then he pushes me away, wiping his tears. "I'm sorry, Dad. I... I didn't mean..." he pushes away from the bed, away from me, standing tall and stiff. A man. _When did that happen?_ Oh, right. Twelve years ago. "I... I'm almost done with the research on the Rothridge house. I'll have it done by tomorrow so we could go there this weekend." He wipes his nose on the back of his hand. His voice is a little rough, but all in all, he's already pretending nothing's happened. That he was okay. But he wasn't. He isn't. And I have to fix it.

I get up from Dean's bed, opening the door to the boys' room just a bit - enough for our voices to carry and for Sammy to listen, but not too much, to let Sammy know not to come in. Dean needs me right now. Dean needs this. He needs this to be private. He needs this to be about him, and if Sammy came in here... Well, we both know it'll be about Sammy. Sam demands attention, but it is Dean who needs it right now.

"You know, you look a lot like your mother." I tell Dean, loud enough for Sammy to hear me from the other room. Sure enough, I suddenly don't hear the TV anymore. I turn back to face Dean, sitting back on his bed and motioning him to sit next to me. He has his back to me, and how I wish I could read his mind right now. He's all rigid, there's still tension in his shoulders. I can't help but smile when I hear Sam's footsteps and the door opening just a little bit more. That boy still has a lot to learn about sneaking around. Lord knows his brother has mastered it far too quickly. "You have her eyes." I say, "And her hands." I add a moment later. He stares at his hands, but still doesn't turn to face me.

"You really remind me of here, did I ever tell you that?" I ask. Dean turns his head to me, and his eyes are filling with tears again. I motion for him to sit next to me again, and when he finally does, I put my arm around him, pulling him closer. He puts his head on my chest and for a second, he's my little boy again. Just a little boy, nothing more.

"I remember the day we found out Mary was pregnant." I tell him. I can see it, clear as if it had happened not two months ago, and I smile. "She was so happy. She was on the phone for hours, telling everyone she knew. I swear, she would have posted an ad in the paper if she'd thought about it." I say, and I can feel Dean looking up at me. I look down at my boy, and it's suddenly a little hard to breathe. He looks skeptic. _He doesn't believe me_. God, Mary, it _hurts_. He knows I don't lie to him. I've never lied to him. Not to Dean. But he still doesn't believe me.

"She wanted to call you Robert." I say, and Dean cocks a brow in disbelief. I chuckle. "Yeah, thought it sounded... dignified." I shrug. "And the second choice was Paul."

"Then..."

"Why Dean?" I ask, finishing my son's question. He nods lightly. "Because I hated the name Robert. Thought it was too pompous. And Paul... Well, it just didn't feel right. Plus, I figured, a name like Paully, you'll get beat up at school." I admit with a smile. Dean's expression is both amused and skeptic.

"And Dean?" he asks and I smile, pulling him closer.

"You looked like a Dean." I said. "Actually, you looked tiny and red and all gooey." I smile at the memory. "They don't tell you that, you know? When they talk about babies, it's all pretty and cute, they don't tell you about the gooey stuff." And I smile, because he's smiling. _Yep, he's going to be trouble with he ladies_...

"And Sammy?" he asks me, and I know he only asks me because he knows Sam's listening. And I'm so proud of him for that.

"Sammy was the name you picked, don't you remember?" Actually, he wanted to name his brother Batman, and then Mrs. Tolena, after his pre-school teacher, but they don't need to know that.

"I think I wanted to call him Big Bird." Dean says wistfully, making me laugh.

"That's right," He did. "Because you were the cookie monster." I smile at the memory. No cookie was ever safe when Dean was around. I think I hear Sam's voice in indignation, but he's still staying outside, and for now, I ignore it. I just make sure he can hear us.

"Did... Did Mom used to bake me cookies?" Dean asks me. I laugh.

"Heavens, no." I say, "I loved your mother, Dean, but trust me, I did not marry her for her cooking. It's a good thing I was used to military food, I tell you that." I add, making him smile. "Actually, you cook better than she ever did." And it's true. He's a good cook. I have no idea where he got that from, because I nearly burnt down a motel room trying to work a toaster once. Sammy still makes fun of me over that one. Dean looks at me with pride, and something else. Something I can't quite put my finger on, but I can tell it shouldn't be there. He looks away too quickly.

"You remember that picnic we went on on forth of July?" I ask, and he looks at me, shaking his head just slightly. I lay on the bed, leaning against the headboard and pulling Dean there with me. It's been a long time since I last held him this way. I don't really know why. Probably because Sammy is the one demanding my attention. Dean sort of slips through the cracks. It's wrong, I know it's wrong, but it's life.

"I think you were three." I tell him, noticing the door opening slightly. "We drove over to Clinton, to the lake, with my friend Mike and his family, and a friend of your Mom's with her family. Your mother packed us food enough to last an entire week." I smile at the memory. "Of course, she only made the salads herself." My smile grows as Dean smiles, a dreamy look in his eyes. "We had a barbeque. Your Mom, she spread this quilt on the grass and laid out all these games for you, but you were too busy running off to the lake until she finally gave up and got in the water with you." I drift off for a while, captivated by the memory, until I notice the look on Dean's face. I nudge him a little, asking what's wrong without actually asking.

"I don't remember that." He says in a small voice. I took a deep breath.

"Well, you sure gave her a run for her money. You simply refused to get out of the water. She finally had to bribe you with ice cream." I say, "And you made such a mess and so much noise... I don't think any of us could have been more grateful when you finally took your nap." I smile, squeezing him closer to me, my chin touching the top of his head. "We stayed for the fireworks. They had the fireworks over the lake so they reflected in the water. Your mother loved it." I sigh dramatically. "I, on the other hand, was too busy trying to calm you down. The fireworks freaked you out. You were screaming so hard, I think they could have heard you in Florida." I try not to laugh at the look on his face.

"I so did _not_ freak out from fireworks!" Dean says indignantly. I laugh. He most definitely did.

"And remember that baseball game I took you to?" I ask, and he shakes his head again. Too bad, that was a great day. "You loved it. You wouldn't shut up about it for weeks, until Mary bought you this little bat and a catcher's mitt, and we'd play catch in the back yard for hours." I say, and then frown, looking down at my son. "You know, you had quite a decent toss for a four year old. Good arm." Dean beams at the complement.

"I still do. Remember that thing in Alabama last year?" he asks, and I smile. I remember. "Dad..." he hesitates, and I wait. I'll wait for as long as he needs me to wait. "Dad, what was mom like?" he asks me, and I frown. _Wasn't that what I've been telling him?_ "I mean, did she go to college? Was she a good student? Did she play an instrument? What were her hobbies? What kind of music did she like? What did her perfume smell like?" I'm silent for a long time. These are Sammy's questions, I'm sure of it. But it's Dean asking them. I wonder if there's something he's not asking. It wouldn't surprise me. He keeps so much from me. When he pulls away from me I realize I've been quiet for too long. "I'm sorry," he says in this small, four year old voice, sitting back up, ready to leave, to give up. _When did this happen? When did he start pulling away from me? When did he start hiding from me?_ I grab him by the wrist.

"Sammy, you might as well come in here, too." I say out loud, pulling Dean back to me and extending my other hand to my youngest, beckoning him to join us on the bed. Sam complies quickly, laying his head on my chest where Dean used to be. Dean remains close, but distant, and I wonder if that's how things are going to be. If he'll always stay close but distant, because I know that's not what you would have wanted, Mary. I know he has such potential in him, so much more than I can see, and I'm so scared he's never going to live up to it. I'm so scared I'm messing up so bad and that I'll never have the chance to make it right again.

"Your Mom's perfume..." I start, sighing. "It had this long, French name. It was a tiny bottle that cost a fortune. And you know what? I used to hate it." Sammy looks up at me, Dean just stares at the ceiling. I smile at my youngest. "Scout's honor. It made me nauseous." Sam giggles. Dean doesn't even smile. He's different when Sammy's around. I can't quite put my finger on it, but Dean's different around his brother. And he's always around his brother, or rather, the other way around._ Is it natural for brothers to be that close? _I was never close to my brother. God, I haven't talked to him in years, and that's before Sammy was even born. He was at the funeral, but I don't think I've talked to him since.

"What else, Daddy?" Sammy pushes, and I sigh and shift, holding both my boys to me. Dean wiggles, pushing away, but I don't let him, and he finally lets go, relaxes a bit.

"She had a degree." I say. "A Master's Degree in one of them psychology-people things, I don't remember which. She loved to learn. She used to read all the time, just like you, Sammy. She used to read to Dean every night, even before he was born. To you, too." I say, and Sam's beaming, dimples showing.

"Tell us more, Dad." Sam says, and I realize this is about Sammy now. It's not supposed to be about Sammy. Not today. I turn to Dean.

"You know, there was this time, I think you were about a year and a half old. Your mother came to see me at the garage. She was beaming, glowing. Said you were playing at the park and some agent came up to her and told her he's never seen such a pretty kid. He wanted you to come for a photo shoot, make you a model or something." Sam giggles. Dean bites his lip, raising his brow like he doesn't believe me. "Your mother was so proud. She told everyone you were going to be the next 'Gap' baby or something." I pause, waiting for Dean's reaction.

"What happened?" Sam pushed. It should have been Dean. _Heavens, Mary, what if it's too late? What if I did this all wrong?_

"Your brother never did like being in the spotlight. Not even as a baby. He did everything they'd asked, charming everyone in the room, until the camera guy came and turned on that spotlight. And then he started crying and refused to stay." I remember that now. We asked him what was wrong, and he said the lights made Mommy go away, and he was scared she wasn't going to come back. Sam started teasing his brother, and Dean told him to shut up.

"Of course, then came the Sammy Scream Fest of '83." I sigh. That shut Sam up immediately.

"That, I remember." Dean says dryly, making me laugh.

"You had an ear infection that wouldn't go away," I explain to my youngest. "You were crying all the time. Your mother would hold you in her arms, walk around the house with you, singing that God-awful song... What was it?" I stumble.

"Ninty nine bottles of beer on the wall." Dean says, and I laugh.

"That's right. Man, I nearly kicked you out of the car the first time you sang that song." I tell Sammy, noticing that, this time, Dean's lip quirked up a little.

"You know she loved you, boys, right?" I ask seriously. "The both of you. You boys made her happy. She loved taking care of you, even when Sammy was crying all night long and Dean got cake all over the carpet a minute after she finished cleaning the cake he rubbed into the carpet earlier." I wink at my eldest. "She loved you until the moment she died. She never stopped loving you." I say. Sam hugs me tighter, and Dean blinks quickly. I kiss the top of his head. Sammy's, too. "And for the record, so do I."

The End


End file.
